operascrypta

Voice

Voice.

"The author's voice", "finding my voice", "I lost my voice", "the voice of the voiceless", "you're doing the voice again"...

Am I allowed to have a voice?

I look back at my writing from seven months ago and struggle to hear myself. The sentiments are there, the details seem accurate, yet the tone is foreign—a stranger's voice. That doesn't sound like me, I think, staring at the dribble of thought snot on the page. It is a frustrating, ever-present haunting. I fight the temptation to sink into the melancholy of my own critical demons. Some of my recent work offers the delusion of hope, but I wonder: will this, too, turn into the maggot-filled carcass of a once-promising idea in six months' time?

It's odd developing a manuscript around the quest to learn the art and craft of writing. There were birds this morning at The Spot—a frantic flurry of life, climbing, pecking, and flapping. Their calls were a symphonic orgasm with a raw and rhythmic pulse. The sound consumed my attention and touched something primal. It was an honest, undeniable representation of existence. Good writing should be that: birdsong.

I have a process; perhaps an artifact of a technical life ruled by algorithms and logic. Regardless, I have a method. A feeling or an idea becomes an obsession—a message demanding communication. I strive to uncover, refine, and decode that message, then translate it into words that are honest and clear. This task demands vulnerability, hyper self-criticism, and contemplation—a mystical zen state. I must skin the fleshy artifice, trim the meat, and crack the bone open to let the marrow drip. Drip.

The struggle is painful. There are days when I view my work with instantaneous disgust and contempt. To survive the metaphorical pen, I approach the page like a child. I remind myself that self-kindness is a superpower. Skill can be engineered. As long as I maintain the proper mindset to sustain the practice, the breathing bones of the words will release the rich marrow. I will find my voice.